


i'll weigh you down, i'll watch you choke

by misplaced_space_ace



Series: The Youngblood Chronicles Compendium [2]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Drug Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt Pete Wentz, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Patrick Stump is an Angel, Patrick Stump to the rescue, Pete Wentz's Suicide Attempt (Best Buy Incident), Self-Esteem Issues, Suicide Attempt, Well it's happy-ish, because why the fuck did Pete call his manager and not Patrick??, but i hate it, just because there's no warnings doesn't mean you shouldn't be careful, like I know why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 08:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22966705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misplaced_space_ace/pseuds/misplaced_space_ace
Summary: Pete had never wanted to die. He just wanted it all to stop.
Relationships: Patrick Stump & Pete Wentz, Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz (implied)
Series: The Youngblood Chronicles Compendium [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650328
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	i'll weigh you down, i'll watch you choke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heartsliesnpeterick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsliesnpeterick/gifts).



> This is a part of my Youngblood Chronicles story that didn't make it off the cutting room floor, but I really like it, so here you go. You don't need to read that one to understand this one, but *shameless self-plug* if you enjoy this, you'll most likely enjoy that too!  
> Big thanks to yourtiredheart for all of their support on my larger YBC fic! This is for you while you wait patiently for TMF.

Pete Wentz took a deep breath and willed his racing thoughts to slow down to a dull roar. His sweaty hand could barely keep hold of the cell phone he clutched against his face, and he forced lightness into his voice with the last bit of energy in his body.

“Trick, for the last time, go to sleep. I’m fine.”

“You’re a liar.”

“No, I’m not. You’re being paranoid, and that’s **my** job. Stop stealing my thunder.” Pete squeezed a laugh out of his frozen lungs. “I’m an adult. I’ll be fine. As adorable as your constant helicopter parenting is, I will be alright without it.”

“Pete, you’re an adult in years and absolutely nothing else.”

“You may be right, but that still doesn’t mean you get to babysit me.”

“If I don’t, who will? Just tell me where you are, if you’re not okay we can figure it out together. You’re not alone, Pete. Please talk to me.”

“I will not let you get out of bed in the middle of the night, drive all the way to see me, and work yourself up into a little fit. Not just so you can realize you’re being ridiculous and overbearing. You can realize that right where you are.”

“Pete, please.”

“I promise I’m fine, okay? Pinky swear.”

“I can literally feel gray hairs sprouting out of my head right now. You’re going to put me in an early grave.” _Well, at least we’ll be together,_ Pete thought to himself.

“Mhm, and you can ground me later, dad. Go to sleep.”

“…Fine.”

“Hugs and kisses, buddy. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Pete flipped his phone closed with numb fingers and sighed, feeling the weight of his lies caving his chest in. It had always hurt him to lie to Patrick, hurt in a way he could never get used to, hurt in a way that never really went away. You would think, then, that he would avoid it, but he lied to Patrick more than anyone else in his life.

He had to protect Patrick from seeing this, the undoing of his best friend. He couldn’t bear Patrick witnessing the way he was rapidly crumbling under the stress tonight. And if he were here, he would only try to stop Pete. He would have the right words, words like _hope_ and _help_ and _together_ and it would be okay for a little bit, but this feeling would come back. It always did. And Pete needed it all to go away.

Trick had always acted in his best interests, but Pete knew he wouldn’t understand why this had to be done.

A handful and a half of pills later, Pete could feel the warm burn of the alcohol in his chest mix with his slowing heart rate and the struggle to feel life in his veins, and was beginning to second-guess his decision. He had never wanted to die. He just wanted to stop existing for a little while, to remove himself from this world, this pain and anxiety and _pressure_ _._ There was too much going on, and Pete’s scrambled brain couldn’t cope, so this was the solution he had invented. But _dying,_ it was so final, so permanent. And there were a lot of things he still had to do, a lot of people he still cared about and a lot of things he hadn’t said at the right time to the right people. There were a lot of feelings he still loved to feel and a lot of good still walking the earth, and he couldn’t leave now when this world still had Patrick Stump and a million beautiful things.

Pete didn’t know why he couldn’t just be happy. He was in a massively successful band, From Under the Cork Tree had blown up, and he was living the dream he never thought he’d be able to reach. But living in infamy didn’t matter to Pete, not anymore, not when he didn’t even fucking know who he was half the time. Not when having his picture taken made his guts freeze and every word he said into a microphone felt like a nail in his coffin. It had been years since he really felt right with himself. And Pete didn’t know much about normal, but he knew that wasn’t how things were supposed to be.

Pete stared blankly out his windshield at the dull yellow of the neon Best Buy sign in front of him, the ugly glare overwhelming the darkness that surrounded it. The letters were starting to blur together as Pete’s eyelids got heavier and heavier. Jeff Buckley doing Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah was drifting through his speakers and warping into sour notes he’d never heard before. Pete could feel the life draining out of him as his racing thoughts collected in the cesspool of his brain with nowhere to escape, attacking him while he was vulnerable, kicking him when he was down. His numb fingers found their way to his phone, and he opened it without really knowing what he intended to do. He couldn’t call 911, couldn't call his manager who would just call his mom, couldn’t deal with flashing lights or disappointment or any more panic than he was already feeling.

But his fingers were already dialing Patrick’s number without his brain’s permission. The phone felt impossibly heavy and Pete ducked his head to meet it, unable to find the strength to lift it any higher.

“Pete?” Patrick’s tired and vaguely annoyed voice drifted through the speaker.

“I’m in trouble, Trick,” Pete slurred out.

“I know. I’m on my way. Best Buy parking lot?” Pete couldn’t find his words and nodded slowly as if Patrick could see him. “Please hold on, I’m almost there.” Pete watched his own hand swim before his eyes with a detached sort of interest as the line went dead and he tried not to pass out. Clutching the empty bottle of Ativan like a lifeline, black polish on stubby nails and tattoos up to his wrist, trembling violently, he was only just barely aware that the hand belonged to him. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before Patrick’s beat-up Ford screeched its way into the parking lot next to him, but it felt like half a lifetime that he had to hold onto broken pieces of consciousness. He had never seen Patrick move faster, was like a blur as he made his way to Pete, but it still seemed like forever until he could feel his friend’s arms around him, his frantic choked whisper reaching his ear.

“Jesus Christ, Pete.” And Patrick was breathing fast, too fast, panic attack fast, and neither of them could afford that right now but all Pete could do was lean into him and believe that maybe they could both still be okay. Patrick’s warm hands were forcing the bottle out of his hand then, ice-cold fingers feeling so brittle that Pete imagined they would shatter like a pane of glass if they were struck too hard. Pete himself felt even more fragile than that. He was sure a word with too sharp of an edge could break him right now.

Then Patrick was shaking him, fear in his voice, shouting his name in his face, and Pete squinted, trying to put the face and the voice together into who he knew was the same person. The effort was beyond him, and he collapsed into his friend, too damn tired to keep trying.

“Hmgh?” Pete muttered, trying to let Patrick know there was still life inside him. The three Patricks lingering in the open doorway of his car were beginning to fit themselves into the same shape, his best friend, hat pushed back off his forehead, glasses halfway down his nose, strawberry blonde hair plastered to his face and tears gleaming in the wells of his eyes. Pete’s stomach lurched and he wasn’t sure if it was the pills or the knowledge that he had hurt Patrick again that was the culprit. But he knew then that he couldn’t die now. Couldn’t leave this beautiful person to mourn him alone. He couldn’t just abandon Patrick. They needed each other. They weren’t whole without each other. And for all the times he had hurt Patrick, he wouldn’t do _that_ to him. Wouldn’t take his closest friend, his ally against the evils of the world, his shield and refuge from the unfairness, away from him.

But Pete’s body and brain had different opinions about the importance of his survival, and with a sluggish horror he realized the blood didn’t have the strength to make it all the way into his frozen fingers and toes and the numbness was beginning to penetrate his skin. Patrick loosened his death grip on Pete’s shoulders, still tight enough that he could feel blunt nails digging into his skin, and held Pete at arm’s length in front of him.

“Pete, for fuck’s sake, what did you do to yourself?” Pete stared numbly into the abyss of his friend’s gaze. The pinprick black holes stared back at him, a challenge, daring him to give up, daring him to surrender.

“Ten… maybe twenty? A little more… some whiskey. Just… wanted it to go away, Trick.” His words were running into each other and were hardly intelligible but they must’ve made sense to Patrick because the worry weighed heavier in his expression with every word.

“Fuck Pete, why didn’t you come to me? Why didn’t you…” and he sounded suddenly, desperately angry, “we could’ve figured this out together, Pete! You didn’t have to do this, you know I’d do anything to help you, you moron.” Nothing could wound him like that voice of Patrick’s could, and all of this was so much worse up close when it was happening in front of his eyes. It was so impossibly bad, worse than the life draining out of his body was the shattered look in his friend’s eyes, the betrayal and terror. Then Patrick’s arms were around him again, squeezing so tight that Pete’s labored breaths could barely find their way to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Pete slurred and the words tasted sad and wrong on his lips. Sorry couldn’t touch how bad this was. Sorry couldn’t begin to build a bridge when Pete was this selfish, needing Patrick to save him from himself again, couldn’t fix that Pete didn’t ever tell Patrick he was struggling, that Pete was a horrible friend, that he was more trouble than he could ever possibly be worth. Patrick, who was too young to get into a bar, was a better man than Pete could ever hope to be and chose to put up with all of Pete’s bullshit when he really, really didn’t have to and would probably be a lot happier if he had never met Pete in the first place. A lot better off, a lot less stressed and a lot less hurt. And all Pete could give him in return was ‘I’m sorry’.

Patrick clutched Pete tighter to his chest, short, hot breath in his ear. Patrick’s voice was small and soft and scared when he spoke.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Everything is fine, and you’re gonna be fine, but you have to let me help you, okay?” It was so choked up and shaky that it barely sounded like words, all but dying inside Patrick’s throat before they could make themselves known. “I’m here. I’m not leaving, and we’re gonna be okay.” And Patrick was crying now, and this was easily the worst thing that had ever happened to Pete. No, the worst thing that Pete had ever _done to himself._ Patrick was sobbing softly against him as he held him tight, the gentle heat of his body doing nothing to bring life back to Pete’s slowly dying one. Pete had done a lot to Patrick, made him worry, pissed him off, even thrown punches at him, but he had never made Patrick cry. If Pete had the energy, he’d probably be shedding a few tears himself, because this was truly more than he could bear.

After letting himself fall apart for a few seconds, he sniffled softly and pulled back from Pete, dragging the back of his hand roughly across his face. “Get out, we’re going to the hospital. C’mon.” Pete struggled to move his feet from the floor of the car to the ground, and he clutched Patrick the best he could as he tried to support himself. Most of his weight ended up on his friend, and he was a little surprised they didn’t both end up on the pavement.

“No hospital. Please.”

“Pete, let me ask you, do you actually want to die?” Pete thought about it and knew deep down that the answer had never been yes.

“…No.”

“Then we need to go to the hospital, because you’re twisted, and you need medicine I don’t have. I know you don’t wanna go there, but I’ll be with you the whole time. I won’t let them hurt you. You’ll be okay, but you have to work with me.”

And Pete had to concede that was a fair deal.

Later he was told if they had been ten minutes later, he would’ve ended up in a coma. Pete knew Patrick was the top entry in a long list of things he didn’t deserve, including being alive, but Patrick was _there_ and Patrick had saved him again and even if he wasn’t worth saving, Patrick didn’t care, and that was enough.


End file.
